As a girl, I was infatuated with Davy Jones. He had dreamy eyes, a beautiful voice, a great English accent and he was funny too. A perfect package all rolled up into one young pop star. I bought magazines with his image plastered on the front covers. I pinned up posters of him on my bedroom walls. I watched him on television (he was the only sensible Monkee). And...I bought his records. The world has lost a wonderful person.

An orange peel grapple is a big machine. Excavator on the
bottom. Long arm in the middle. And a metal grapple on the end that looks like
a horror movie claw. The base spins. The arm moves up and down. The grapple
grabs stuff like SUVs and big piles of metal.

You may come across one while driving, and if you have a
little boy in the car, you may have to pull over to watch the thing move cars
into a tractor trailer. Otherwise, nothing about this machine will rock your
world.

But an orange peel grapple changed my life.

My life was a complete disaster at the time. Though I had a
beautiful baby boy and a good husband, I had a job in an industry I swore I
would never return to, at a company that wanted nothing more than to suck the
blood directly from my heart with a curly straw. This, after I had already sold
all the blood in my heart to the film industry, which after a few meetings and
screenwriting awards, looked like it might want to take a sip from that straw.

A sip, because as good as things were looking, I saw a long
road in front of me. My work was not “commercial enough,” and my manager had
made it clear that years would pass before I would be able to convince anyone
that this lack of commerciality was a quality that was, well, commercial.

But no. My husband lost his job, and I found work in the
fashion industry soon after. What I rapidly discovered was that, though
out-of-towners could schedule meetings back-to-back all over town, Angelenos
were expected to take a meeting at the last minute, or blithely accept a
rescheduling. My boss, on the other hand, had no interest in moving around my
personal days, and my sick days dwindled in my first three months on the job. It
took only a few months for the meetings to dry up and for me to start writing a
Santa Claus script out of desperation.

So, the blood-sucking fashion job with the inflexible hours was
right next to a scrap yard, which apparently opened at the crack of dawn because
when I got there at seven thirty every morning, the orange peel grapple was
already grabbing away. If I had a minute, I watched it go up and down as I
clutched my coffee, and I thought, one day I should get a video camera and film
this because my son would love it. Really love it.

My son was about eighteen months old and just learning to
talk. I missed him while I was at work, adored him when he was awake and with
me, and the rest of the time, I found room to resent him for taking me away
from writing. He was then, and has remained, a fireball of energy. His teacher
alternated between calling him a Jack Russell terrier and a buzz saw. He is
also obsessive. Right now, he has a room full of Legos. Before that, it was
Thomas the Tank Engine, and before that, it was trucks. Big yellow trucks. He
wouldn’t fall asleep unless he gripped a toy truck in each fist. When he received
a Tonka loader for Christmas, it was love at first sight. He called it “lolo.”

One morning, with the vision of that big ‘lolo’ that I would
later know as an orange peel grapple dancing in my head, I dialed a friend’s
number. I’d known this man from Brooklyn, and he’d come to Los Angeles a few
years earlier to attend the American Film Institute. Most importantly, he had a
camera. When I got his answering machine, instead of asking him for the camera,
I said something else entirely, something like, “Hey, wanna produce a kid’s
video together? Here’s the pitch. Trucks. Okay, bye.”

That moment may not seem pivotal, but most turning points
don’t when they happen. That moment, I took control of my creative life. My
friend called me back the minute he got up, and we began the journey toward
becoming business owners. We did not pitch the idea around town, and we did not
ask permission to bring the work to the public. We put the DVDs on Createspace,
and eventually had to hold inventory to meet the demand.

Lolo Productions and the Totally
Trucks series have had ups and downs, but the process taught me two things.
One, my concepts need to be simple. If I can’t pitch it in five words, it’s not
a concept I should develop. My second lesson is that I can be in control of my
product and my creative life. If I think something is worthwhile, I can bring
it to my customers. Becoming the producer and publisher of my work means I understand
now what agents and studio executives meant when they said “commercial.”

Without my son, I never would have taken the life-sucking
job. And without that job, there would have been no orange peel grapple. And
without that scrapyard, there would have been no Totally Trucks. No eye for the commercial and no control of
self-publishing. Who knows what I would have made without all the things that
pissed me off for interrupting my work.

Directions

In a Dutch oven, cook the bacon over medium heat
until brown and crispy (be careful not to burn it). Remove bacon from pan, and set aside. Drain off all but 1/4
cup of the bacon grease.

In the bacon grease remaining in the pan, saute the
celery and onion until the vegetable soften. Add the garlic, and
continue cooking for 1 to 2 minutes. Add the cubed potatoes, and toss to
coat. Saute for 3 to 4 minutes. Return the bacon to the pan, and add
enough chicken stock to just cover the potatoes. Cover, and simmer until
potatoes are tender.

In a separate pan, melt the butter over medium heat.
Whisk in the flour. Cook stirring constantly, for 1 to 2 minutes.
Whisk in the heavy cream. Bring the cream mixture
to a boil, and cook, stirring constantly, until thickened. Stir the
cream mixture into the potato mixture. Puree about 1/2 the soup, and
return to the pan. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve with warm, crusty bread.

I just saw that Amazon has discounted Taking Love in Stride to 99 cents. Grab a copy for your Kindle before the price goes up to $2.99! I thought I'd better let readers know about this deal. (Please check the price closely before 1-clicking!)

"This book had me from the provocative cover! I've enjoyed all of Donna Fasano's work and look forward to reading An Accidental Family next. Keep up the great work, Donna!" ~Patricia Roque, Amazon Reviewer

"I loved everything about this book, the story, the excellent writing, it kept me glued to the screen. I loved it." ~Karin Hurt, Amazon reviewer

"Romance novels are not something I usually read, but I was quickly hooked on Taking Love in Stride. Donna Fasano kicks off the book with conflict between two strong characters who feel mutual physical attraction. " ~Holly Weiss, Nook reviewer

I want to thank everyone who entered The Valentine Blog Hop! This has been very fun, and I appreciate each and every hopper who stopped by. Without further ado, I'd like to announce the winner. Congratulations go out to...

Teressa Oliver

Teressa has won the $10 Amazon gift certificate and the sterling silver frog earrings. She will also be entered in the drawing for the grand prize described at Book Luvin' Babes. Good luck, Teressa!

Okay, this post is for all the guys out there who are anxiety ridden over how to sign those perfect Valentine's Day card you bought for the woman in your life. Of course, you could go for easy ~ I love you ~ and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But if you want to melt her heart, how about something extraordinary?

~ ~ ~

Here are a few selections for women who love mushy-gushy:

~ I could search my whole life through and never find another you ~

~ Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice,

but falling in love with you was beyond my control ~

~ Falling in love with you is the easiest thing I've done in my life ~

If you looking for something a little more flirty, try:

~ The spaces between your fingers were made for mine ~

~ If nothing lasts forever...will you be my nothing? ~

~ Loving you is like breathing...I can't possibly stop ~

If none of those work for you, how about:

~ Your love is the sunshine that lights my world ~

~ Any joy, any wish, any dream can be ours...as long as we're together ~

~ You are the most delicious part of my fantasies ~

~ Some people say love makes the world go round,

I say love is what makes the ride worthwhile ~

Whatever you choose to sign in that perfect card, I'm sure it's going to make that special woman feel loved all the more. And isn't that the whole point of this special day?

When I was a little girl I used to make up stories at
bedtime for my younger sister, Michelle.
The most vivid centered on a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in
their trick-or-treat bag, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a
magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes. Even at such a young age, the process of
concocting stories was effortless. My
mind revolved like the reel of a movie spinning inside my head.

I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful and
white as a freshly painted fence. I
fantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, the
house I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.

When I was a teenager, my mind
still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams.
I remember lying on my bed in my room staring at a poster on my
wall of James Dean. He was hunkered down
on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perched behind him with her
arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. I wanted to jump into the poster like the
girl in A-Ha’s Take on Me video and
ride off into life’s highway, just me and James. Together, forever.

When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attend
college at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figured
out. I’d developed a slight obsession
with Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genre
for me as a writer. All kinds of ideas
flowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never started
writing.

Why?

I wasn’t prepared for the events that were about to take
place in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn’t turn out to be the dream I
thought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trials
that at times seemed more than I could bear.
My relationships didn’t always work out, and all the babies I hoped to
have didn’t come like I’d planned.
There were times when I felt like my life was like a shattered mirror,
and I was on my hands and knees desperately searching for all the pieces of myself
so I could glue them back together and feel whole again. During those times I wondered how many other
women out there in the world felt the same exact way.

Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myself
back up and I healed. With a new lease
on life and a positive attitude about what I’d overcome, I thought about
writing again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel in
my Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later and
now I’m hard at work on the third, I Have
a Secret.

As I sit here and write this, I’m shocked that I am being so
candid. Normally, I safeguard my
feelings. To say I’m a private person is
an understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never lose
sight of your hopes and dreams. Never
forget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable of
accomplishing in your life. And if you
have a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine.
Let it breathe. Let it be.

When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and I
wrote the following:

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a
dream. We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it. Make it last, make it count, and make it the
best it can be. Live your dreams, I know
I am.

Today, I’m no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up on
his shiny black motorcycle. I’ve fallen
for a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and a
simple life. One who wants to be a
cowboy when he grows up. Now the poster
I see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trusty
steed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.

If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thought
I wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would say
I’m right where I’m supposed to be. My
life isn’t perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot to
learn about myself. But no matter what
the future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I’ll never stop writing.

*******

This is one story
from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories,
buy your copy today.

So Valentine's Day is fast approaching and I'm always looking for lively ways to stir up a little mayhem. (I'm married to a logical scientist who doesn't understand the whole 'let's celebrate love' thing, so I'm forced to make my own fun. I ♥ him dearly, but...come on!)

I went hunting for some quirky gifts to give and found these great items:

And, finally, a gift for women to give their single girlfriends. Yes, they need to celebrate Valentine's Day too! A reversible hand puppet that she can change from prince to frog and back again, depending on her mood.

I can't wait to celebrate Love Day! How about you? I'd love to hear what mischief and naughty mayhem you have planned! Leave a comment below and...

For the past two days I've offered my book FREE in Amazon's Kindle Store. Nearly 16,000 copies of the book have been downloaded and the book has been sitting at the #7 spot on the Kindle Top 100 Free Books List since early this morning. I want to thank all the readers and authors and bloggers who have helped me get the word out about this free offer. I'd especially like to thank Greg at eReader News Today for posting my free giveaway in his newsletter and on the ENT FaceBook page. (If you own an e-reader and you don't follow this site, shame on you. You're missing some wonderful deals!)

For two days - Wednesday and Thursday - February 8th and 9th, the Kindle edition of my book will be available for FREE! I feel like celebrating Valentine's Day early, and what better way to commemorate that cute and cuddly Cupid than by giving away copies of my romance novel?

Fact: I was born on
a bathroom floor. Literally. My arrival into this world was
followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St. John’sHospital in Detroit, Michigan.

You see, I was the fifth out of six children. My mother knew my delivery would be fast, but
the nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctor
arrived.

Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, my
mother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she had
warned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second. That, having already delivered four children,
she knew her body pretty well.

The doctor said, “Five kids, huh? Maybe you should tell your husband to keep it
in his pants.”

True story.

***

Both of my parents were born in Italy. They emigrated to the U.S.
in the 1950s. My father always said the
biggest difference between Italy
and America at
that time was that you could work your ass off in Italy
and have nothing to show for it. If you
worked hard in America,
you could eventually become wealthy. He
started a construction company and worked 6 days a week, from dawn to
dusk. Eventually, he was successful.

My mother raised six children.

She is a strong woman.

Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms.

The one I remember most?
“A well-made flour sack stands on its own.”

It was almost like a mantra with her.

At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.

***

So there I am. I’ve
got a full-time job in advertising. I’m
writing about products that suck, working for people I can’t stand, and with
two good friends, drinking every night after work. At a little bar not far from the office. I’m averaging about five or six drinks a
night. Every weeknight. More on the weekends.

But on those weekend mornings, I’m writing fiction. Just short stories that I try to picture in
The Paris Review.

Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.

One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAY
OF THE JACKAL on television. The
original movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure load
of crap. But the book. The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of my
all-time favorites.

The scene on television is the best part of the movie: It’s where the Jackal is sighting in his
rifle. He paints a little face on a
small melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.

There’s no epiphany.
I go to bed. But as I toss and
turn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrative
structure of the story. I’ve read the
book several times. Even have a
collector’s edition. The chase. The tension.
The violence.

When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strong
pot of coffee. I push aside my short
literary fiction, and start a new story.

It’s about a hitman and a female escort.

Later that day, during some interminable meeting where
everyone is throwing out insidious phrases like “let’s get on the same page,”
and “think outside the box,” I realized what I was doing.

I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on the
kind of stories and books I like.

Crime fiction.
Thrillers. Suspense.

I had forgotten one of my mother’s cardinal rules.

A well-made flour sack stands on its own.

***

I know it sounds melodramatic. But the truth is, everything changed after
that night. I still despised the
advertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much. I begged off going to the bar with my
friends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in the
evenings.

Eventually, I finished several crime novels. Even landed a big New
York literary agent.

But a funny thing happened.
My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how to
market me. Should I be a hardboiled
crime novelist? A thriller writer? A traditional mystery author?

There were suggestions to change this book and change that
one. Then change it back. Then change it to something else.

But now I had learned.
I was smarter.

I told them thanks, but no thanks.

It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.

So I became an indie author.

And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, I
knew I had made the right decision.

Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armed
with an aphorism.